Chapter Twenty-One“What in the hell is that, Silas?”
The sheriff, squatting down on his haunches, lifted up the garment in both hands and pursed his lips. “A coat.”
The deputy rubbed his chin. “Are you thinking maybe the killer snagged it on this broken fence as he made his getaway?”
“That's exactly right, Vaughn.”
“But hell, there must a hundred men who own a coat like that.”
“Yeah.” Silas licked his lips and stood up, the coat draped over one arm and, in his hand, a screwed up, dog-eared piece of paper. “But not all of them leave a letter in their pocket.”
Vaughn gawped. “Is his name on it?”
Silas threw Vaughn the coat and unfolded the paper. “It's a claim form. From the assayer. And here are their names, written as bold as you like.” He brought it up and showed it to his deputy,
